Lyrical Awakeninghttps://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com
~ stories for the soul & heart ~Thu, 14 Dec 2017 00:17:29 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/1d8dbafdeb6d23baa714ab349e28eac8?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs2.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngLyrical Awakeninghttps://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com
A Brazilian Girl’s Survival Guide to Living in America: Part 1https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/07/25/a-brazilian-girls-survival-guide-to-living-in-america-part-1/
https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/07/25/a-brazilian-girls-survival-guide-to-living-in-america-part-1/#respondMon, 25 Jul 2016 16:52:38 +0000http://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/07/25/a-brazilian-girls-survival-guide-to-living-in-america-part-1/Open Thought Vortex: Part I. The first time grandma took me to the airport in Rio de Janeiro, I threw a tantrum like she’d never seen. I threw myself on the ground, pulled out my hair, tried to bite chunks of flesh out of my arms, screamed so loud people on the…]]>

The first time grandma took me to the airport in Rio de Janeiro, I threw a tantrum like she’d never seen.I threw myself on the ground, pulled out my hair, tried to bite chunks of flesh out of my arms, screamed so loud people on the other side of the airport could probably hear me.

I was six years old, and if there was anything I knew, it was that I didn’t want to live with my mother and her new family in California.I’d met the man she ended up marrying once, and I’d gotten such an disquieting sense of his soul badness that I’d stuck my tongue out at him and run out of the room.I didn’t really want to meet my younger sister either.Well, maybe I did a little, but not enough to actually…

]]>https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/07/25/a-brazilian-girls-survival-guide-to-living-in-america-part-1/feed/0Featured Image -- 336julianacrespoHappy Father’s Day Letter to the Unfatheredhttps://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/06/19/happy-fathers-day-letter-to-the-unfathered/
https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/06/19/happy-fathers-day-letter-to-the-unfathered/#commentsSun, 19 Jun 2016 20:20:03 +0000http://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/?p=303Continue reading Happy Father’s Day Letter to the Unfathered]]>Happy Father’s Day to all those little girls and boys who don’t have fathers or only know their fathers from a great physical or emotional distance.

Happy Father’s Day to all the women and men in my life whose fathers have hurt them beyond repair, whose fathers have committed disloyal and unforgivable acts, whose fathers have not been fathers.

Happy Father’s Day to those mothers and fathers who have bravely “fathered” their children or those individuals who have “fathered” their artistic/political/spiritual aspirations in spite of their own father’s absence. This is one of the bravest acts we can participate in, for it is here that we heal.

Happy Father’s Day to those who feel lonely on this day, because they do not know or understand the meaning of “father.”

Happy Father’s Day to those of you who don’t have much to celebrate today because for some unfair or incomprehensible reason, life hasn’t delivered you with a fatherly presence that you can count on.

Happy Father’s Day to those of you who feel the need to be silent on this day, when the rest of the country is celebrating.

I applaud you and I applaud myself, for standing brave in a world where we have had to learn to father ourselves and father our children.

I like to imagine she’s journeying to the moon. Fairies fly her there, the same fairies we read about in books. They have translucent wings that catch the light of the moon and shimmer like a kaleidoscope in sunlight. She discovers a teacup set and sips on sweet chamomile tea, surrounded by these delicate creatures with their pointy ears and upturned noses. Then they dance on the moon, their laughter sending off sparks.

I stand at her bedroom door with my hand at my heart and listen until her giggles ebbs. But long after I’ve walked away, when I’m tucking myself to sleep, I can still feel the magic. Somehow, it has weaved itself into the silence of night.

]]>https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/05/11/luna/feed/2julianacrespoA Lyrical Vignette: Mushroomshttps://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/21/a-lyrical-vignette-mushrooms/
https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/21/a-lyrical-vignette-mushrooms/#commentsThu, 21 Apr 2016 19:11:02 +0000http://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/?p=295Continue reading A Lyrical Vignette: Mushrooms]]>We were out on a walk when he told me he wants to grow his own mushrooms, told me we eat them often enough that it would make sense to have our own logs. I want fresh mushrooms, he said, not those bulk mushrooms at the grocery store. His words took root in me, in the same way inspiring works of art sometimes do. I imagined baby mushrooms growing and spreading, and I imagined his beautiful artist’s hands harvesting them, then slicing them with his favorite Japanese knife. I imagined him arranging them like art on a plate, then adding them to a savory soup that would taste like earth’s magic on our tongues. He was still speaking when I spied mushrooms sprouting up along the uneven trunk of a tree, reaching up towards a sky that had become the muted pastel hue of evening. I thought of saying something but opted for silence. The moment had become a quiet treasure: his hand holding onto mine, the wintry air playfully smacking my cheeks, and his voice sharing one of many dreams from his own secret mushroom garden. ]]>https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/21/a-lyrical-vignette-mushrooms/feed/2julianacrespoForget Philosophy: All The Wisdom You Need to Know is in a Cat’s Meowhttps://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/18/forget-philosophy-all-the-wisdom-you-need-to-know-is-in-a-cats-meow/
https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/18/forget-philosophy-all-the-wisdom-you-need-to-know-is-in-a-cats-meow/#commentsMon, 18 Apr 2016 02:14:43 +0000http://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/?p=62Continue reading Forget Philosophy: All The Wisdom You Need to Know is in a Cat’s Meow]]>~ disclaimer: genres merge below. ~

Characters:

Old bitter man — an intellectual who scoffs at emotion and has never experienced love.

Tree — the embodiment of Buddha, speaks to those who listen.

The boy — old bitter man’s grandson, whom he happens to be watching for the afternoon.

Location:

Somewhere random, at a park, where it is not yet summer but close. It is evening and the sun is still shining above.

~ * ~

Tree: It’s in the bird’s tweet tweet. It’s in the cat’s meow. It’s in the dog’s moon-chasing bark.

Old bitter man (exasperated but desperate for wisdom): What are you talking about?

Tree: All that we need to know about living life.

Old bitter man: That doesn’t make sense.

Tree: It does, it does. The simplicity of communication. The absence of pretension. Look. See how they are. Humans obscure their existence with theory, philosophy, all that grand nonsense that just imprisons the mind in a labyrinth of its own creation. But for these simple creatures, the labyrinth isn’t there. So they can actually breathe.

Old bitter man watches, a scowl on his face. The bird sweeps through the park, wings like lace stretched taut. A cat saunters by, meowing and wrapping herself around his legs. A dog bounds by, barking at the sky where the moon would be.

Old bitter man: This is a bunch of crap. I don’t buy it.

Tree: Don’t say I didn’t tell you so when you finally get it.

Old bitter man grows quiet, sits down on the grass. He pulls at blades of grass with his gnarled fingers. All his life he’s been invested in the philosophical exploration of existence, but it’s gotten him nowhere. In fact, he’s further than he’s ever been from where he’s always wanted to be: Home. Not a physical home, he already has one of those. But a home inside of himself where he can feel a little bit of peace.

He’s still deep in thought with a little boy runs up to him, tugs on his hand. Alright, alright, old bitter man grumbles. He gets up to his feet and lets the boy lead him. The boy takes him to the creek, where the water glimmers in the sun. The boy whispers in his ear, asks him if they can take their shoes off and wade in the creek. Old bitter man begins to shake his head. But then he pauses, looks behind him at the tree. He finds himself nodding, grumbling about it at the same time.

Off they go, the boy chatting about his day at school. As soon as old bitter man walks into the creek with his bare feet, he relaxes, in spite of himself. The water is just right — somewhere between cool and warm. His grandson’s hand feels small and trusting in his. They let go of each other’s hands and splash each other with their feet. For a moment, old bitter man feels like a little boy again, playing with his best friend.

His heart lurches, and he tenses, thinking it’s a heart attack — he’s taken it too far. Then he realizes his heart isn’t collapsing; it’s pumping blood just fine, better than fine. It’s like his heart can breathe for the first time since he was young. Instead of trying to hold onto this moment, he lets the moment hold him.

Okay, okay, that’s enough, old bitter man says after a few moments. He walks the boy over to a bench and they put their shoes back on.

The boy: Grandpa?

Old bitter man: Yes?

The boy: You don’t usually play with me.

Old bitter man: I don’t?

The boy: No, you don’t. But I like it. I hope we do it again.

They both fall silent, then old bitter man holds his hand out. The boy takes it and they begin their walk home. On their way, they pass the tree.

Old man: I hope we play again, too.

The boy: Tomorrow, tomorrow. Please?

Old bitter man: Let’s plan on that.

They’ve passed the tree and are well on their way home when old bitter man pauses for a moment, makes a point of stopping so he can look behind him at the tree. He nods at the tree, ever so slightly.

Then they keep walking towards the descending sun, the sky the color of a sunkissed peach.

We sat there for another few minutes, the birds outside chirping their happy song, the sun moving higher and higher up in the sky.

Then she got up from my arms and moved to the living room sofa, covered herself with a blanket.

I gave my partner another kiss goodbye, and he sleepily suggested I always say goodbye to Luna in the mornings, even if she happened to still be asleep.

When I walked out to my car, she was at the window, waving, our typical morning ritual. I waved to her and smiled my love for her, hoping she would feel it and carry it with her until we saw each other again.

]]>https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/13/when-youre-six-and-your-mom-leaves-without-saying-goodbye/feed/6julianacrespo12615621_981745505211909_3133406776329576471_oJesus Would Have Let Me Cry on His Shoulderhttps://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/10/jesus-would-have-let-me-cry-on-his-shoulder/
https://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/10/jesus-would-have-let-me-cry-on-his-shoulder/#commentsSun, 10 Apr 2016 23:56:40 +0000http://lyricalawakening.wordpress.com/2016/04/10/jesus-would-have-let-me-cry-on-his-shoulder/Open Thought Vortex: By Juliana Marcelle Crespo Gloria tried to convince me that Jesus lay dormant in the fibrous sinews holding my muscles and joints in place.? She’d come up to me to tell me this while I was doing arm curls at her husband’s gym.? I set down the barbells and…]]>

The first story I’ve published online in a long, long time, and it was recently selected by the WordPress team as a Discover piece. A creative non-fiction story about my teenage years, my bulimia, my unpleasant encounter with Pentecostal religion, and finding spirituality in the most surprising of ways.

Gloria tried to convince me that Jesus lay dormant in the fibrous sinews holding my muscles and joints in place.

She’d come up to me to tell me this while I was doing arm curls at her husband’s gym.I set down the barbells and turned towards her so I could give her my full attention.

Jesus, Gloria said, was waiting for me to learn the language of the Bible.He wanted for the holy energy in my limbs to awaken.He makes you what you are, she told me, her voice as sweet as an untarnished apple.Her breath smelled like mint mouthwash.Her nails were painted red, and her hair reached all the way down her back.

I nodded and picked up the barbell.I did an arm curl.Then another.I wanted to feel something like that.I wanted to feel, period.